


What the Cat Dragged In

by DrGaster



Category: Portal (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Human AU, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Reluctant Caretaker, badthingshappenbingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 01:58:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17572127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrGaster/pseuds/DrGaster
Summary: Wheatley’s been asked why he’s a nurse if he’s so squeamish. The long answer is that in a volatile and potentially dangerous climate like the one the world is in right now, Aperture desperately needs dedicated medical staff. The short answer is Rick.





	What the Cat Dragged In

 

  
“Fancy seeing you here again, Rick.”

Rick looks up with a sheepish grin, but not nearly as much shame as he ought to have. “Well, I figured if I didn’t come to visit, you might start gettin’ worried about me.”

Wheatley scowls, trying to look more angry than worried as he folds his arms. “You know, it would be perfectly acceptable for you to come visit on your feet. Maybe bring lunch, or something, instead of whatever it is you think you’re doing now.”

“Aw, Wheats, I’m startin’ to think you’re not happy to see me,” Rick says, apparently having the nerve to try to _flirt_ , before he breaks into a coughing fit.

Soothingly, Wheatley puts a hand on Rick’s chest, and with his other arm helps to turn him to the side, so that he can clear his lungs. There’s still faint smears of blood on his patient’s arm and flecks in his beard. The sight of it fills Wheatley with alarm, makes his stomach turn. It’s not fresh enough to stain his apron.

He’s been asked why he’s a nurse if he’s so squeamish. The long answer is that in a volatile and potentially dangerous climate like the one the world is in right now, Aperture desperately needs dedicated medical staff. The short answer is Rick.

“Easy now. Deep breathing.”

When the coughing fit has finally died away, he lowers Rick onto his back again. There’s a web of bandages over the other man’s shoulder and upper chest, and he touches it delicately. It doesn’t need to be changed yet. Neither does the second web covering Rick’s hip and leg. Somebody besides him stitched up the injuries and put those bandages there.

“Didn’t mean to worry you,” Rick says apologetically, a bit thinly. He’s still recovering his voice; it’s rough and scratchy. It reflects on the way he looks, pale and weak.

“Hush. I’m working.”

Rick hushes. Wheatley gives him pills and checks his IV and vitals. It’s not a _proper_ medical facility, they have, but it’s a decent approximation, and it could almost feel like being in one of the hospitals they had on the surface, instead of the re-purposed wing of a complex constructed to perform unholy paradoxes in the name of _science_. Almost.

They don’t have full-time doctors. Instead, they have on-call volunteers from other departments, anybody who is qualified. It’s a surprisingly, worryingly small number of people. When the End Of The World happened, their community was built from only the people within Aperture, and a few refugees that were admitted subsequently - a measure of people which includes a great number of scientists, but not a lot of individuals with any medical training.

But they do have full-time nurses, a handful of dedicated people, trained in a little class. Of these, Wheatley is the head.

Maybe that’s because he was the head caretaker before he applied to be reassigned. But he likes to think it’s because he is the most attentive. His hands are gentle as he shifts the pillows under Rick’s head, guiding him to recline against them.

“What exactly are you doin’?” Rick asks, though he shifts compliantly, lazily looking up at Wheatley.

“Gonna wash you off, mate. To say you got a faceful of dirt would be too nice, and the closest handicapped-accessible shower in the place is in the residential sector.” Cave Johnson was big on equal-opportunity hiring, back when hiring was actually a thing, until it meant he had to make any accommodations which would require financial concessions.

“’M not handicapped, though?” Comes the confused reply, Rick turning slightly for a better angle at which to give his vague, incredulous frown.

“You’re injured. Did you forget you’re in the medical wing?”

“No, it’s just...” His sentence trails off, and finally he shrugs his good shoulder and winks. “Well, if you want an excuse to have your hands on me, darlin’, who am I to argue?”

“An excuse--” Wheatley sputters a bit, puts his hands on his hips. “Look here, _Dr. Venture_ \--”

“Oof.”

“--I am taking care of you! You maybe want to show a little bit of gratitude? Hot shot? Historian? _Geologist_?”

“I feel like you’re tryin’ to make an insult out of the fact that I have multiple degrees.” With a slight wince, Rick puts a hand on his chest, and relaxes into the bed, his head tilted backwards over the top of his pillows. He isn’t functioning much as a historian or a geologist right now - as much as Aperture needed medical staff, it also needed more security, and Rick volunteered as soon as the opportunity arose.

“Well, I’m not going to go for the easy shot and make an insult out of the fact that you went topside and got trashed,” Wheatley hisses. He sounds more hurt than he meant to. This time, Rick has the decency to show a little bit of shame.

In the ensuing silence, Wheatley tilts Rick’s head forward, and runs his fingers through injured man’s hair, loosening out the tangles. Washing it is going to be a nightmare. Brushing it is going to be even worse.

“...Somebody had to do it,” Rick grumbles in a vain bid at his own defense.

“Don’t wanna hear it, love.”

Rick falls silent again, and leans up into the gentle touch of Wheatley’s hands.

Sure, _somebody_ had to do it. But why did that somebody have to be _Rick_? Why does it always have to be Rick? One of these days, he’s going to go do something that _somebody has to do_ and never come back again.

Wheatley takes a deep breath to steel himself against these thoughts, and does his best not to think of anything at all as he washes Rick’s hair, with a bowl of water and a chemical solution made by some of the scientists once they ran out of soap. It’s hard to believe they’ve been down here long enough to run out of such a basic supply stock. Is there anything they won’t one day be forced to either replace or do without? If not, does that include Rick, too?

Don’t think about it. He brushes Rick’s damp hair gently and deliberately, and fluffs it dry with a towel. Is this one of the duties of a nurse in a regular hospital? Down here, the job covers a lot of positions. Don’t think about that, either.

“I can just get in a normal shower, you know,” Rick says, breaking the silence, but he sounds so relaxed and so relieved that it’s hard to attribute any weight to the argument.

“This is not an action movie, _Jones_ ; you don’t get just the one care scene with the doctor and then go back to gritting your teeth and getting into brawls with the same dirty bandages on.”

“You’re layin’ into me a little hard for a nurse, sweetheart.” The gently spoken pet name flusters Wheatley; his face becomes hot, and he is grateful that his patient is not facing him.

“You need to get some rest,” the nurse retorts, not at all keen to have this conversation. “Shut your eyes. I’ll be close at hand.”

Rick nods. “...Right. Thanks.”

The self-professed cowboy shuts his eyes; maybe he has no intention of actually going to sleep, but Wheatley can pretend, if it allows him to wash Rick’s body without receiving any suggestive comments. Not that he would _mind_ , under what passes as normal circumstances for them, but now... now is a bad time.

If he had his way, nobody would ever go topside. Then he’d never have to be afraid for anyone, knowing that they were all secure down here in Aperture. Nobody would ever go into the smog-bitten yonder and disappear again. Nobody would come back down covered in bruises again.

They say it’s necessary, from time to time. To scout, to keep an eye on the situation up there, to retrieve supplies, to eliminate possible threats, or generally whenever Mr. Johnson decides it’s warranted.

Don’t think about it. With the water and the chemical and a cloth, he washes Rick’s face downwards. They’ve known each other a long time. Wheatley has pined after him almost as long. They’re best friends. He can’t _imagine_ life without... Don’t think about it.

All this done, he sits heavily down in the armchair meant for visitors, and looks at the other man’s beautiful, peaceful face.

Fancy seeing him here, again.

 


End file.
